


Tales from the Resistance infirmary

by inky_quill



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: F/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, that's all this is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-19
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-09 20:30:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8910940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inky_quill/pseuds/inky_quill
Summary: aka how many dumb diseases & injuries can Poe Dameron make up as an excuse to see his favorite doctor.





	

If the First Order ever wanted an easy way to finish off the Resistance, all they'd need to do was plant a can of expired food paste in the mess hall kitchen. One container mixed in with the evening meal was enough to bring the entire base to a grinding halt, with at least half of the entire population reporting mild to severe symptoms of food poisoning. 

Your medbay was crowded with the most severely afflicted patients, and more people were coming in every minute. Most you were able to treat with a stomach purge and mild pain relievers, but the more severe case required bed rest and supervision. 

The sound of vomiting echoed softly from around the room and the air filtering system couldn't quite remove the stench from the air. You sighed and scrubbed a hand through your hair, looking at the list of your remaining inventory. A supply run would be in order, once there was a pilot available who wasn't vomiting up their stomach lining. 

The door behind you hissed open and your assistant came trooping in, a figure in a flight suit leaning heavily on his shoulder. 

"Got another one for you, doc," Sol said cheerfully. 

"You know what to do with him," you sighed tiredly, pulling on a clean pair of gloves with a snap. Sol laid the pilot out on the examination table. You pulled out your bioscanner and gave it an experimental wave before scanning the patient's vitals. "What are his symptoms?" 

"The standard nausea and headache, and he also seems to be slightly feverish." Sol reported, smothering a yawn. You patted him on the shoulder absentmindedly. 

"Go get some sleep. You've earned it. We need all the healthy people available at full operating capacity," you ordered, tossing a grin over your shoulder at him. 

He saluted and yawned again. "Yes ma'am. I'll send the junior doctor in when he gets back to relieve you. We can't lose our star doctor to exhaustion." 

You shooed him out, flapping your hands at him. "I'll be fine. The first thing you learn in medical school is how to survive on little to no sleep." The doors slid shut with a hiss and you chuckled to yourself, walking back over to your latest patient, who was beginning to stir. 

You grabbed the admissions log off your desk. "Please state your name and date of birth," you said in a professional tone.  
"Poe Dameron, born-" and he started to heave. You handed him a basin just in time for him to vomit in the container rather than on your shoes. He wiped his mouth on the rag you gave him, muttering a 'thank you'.  
"Moving on," you said, entering him into the log. "How do you feel?"

"Like a Wookie just stepped on my stomach," he groaned, laying back on the table and throwing his elbow over his eyes. "Although,” he peeked out from under his arm, "I am feeling much better now that I am in the presence of an angel."  
You rolled your eyes but a tiny smile tugged at the corners of your mouth. “I’m impressed that you pulled that one off with vomit on your lip,” you said, gesturing to your face to show him where the spot was. He scrubbed vigorously at his face with the rag still in his hand.  
“I don’t suppose I could have a mint or brush my teeth, doc?” he asked, looking hopeful.  
“Unfortunately, no. I can give you some painkillers and a fever reducer, but you can’t eat or drink anything else for the next two hours. Your stomach needs to have time to settle. You’ll also have to stay here for that time under supervision so that I can make sure that you don’t have any dangerous symptoms.”  
His face fell. “Two hours?” 

“Standard procedure,” you affirmed, nodding your head. “I have a few holozines, but they’re mostly medical journals. Most of the other patients are just sleeping it off, if you want to try that.”  
“I’ll try sleeping, I guess. No offense, doc, but I’d probably fall asleep with your medical journals anyway.”

“They have the same effect on me,” you sighed. You led him to one of the last remaining free cots set up around the room. “Here you go, flyboy. You can sleep here until your quarantine is up. Oh, and here’s the meds I was talking about. You don’t have any medicine related allergies, do you?”  
“Nope. I’m normally healthy as a bantha,” he said, laying down on the canvas cot. You gave him a tired smile and moved to sit down at your desk. He swallowed the pills, folded his hands behind his head and watched through half-lidded eyes as you worked on filing patient reports and documenting symptoms.  
With each page filed your eyelids drooped closed. Your head would start to nod forward, and you’d catch it and shake your head and get back to work. 

This struggle went on for another ten minutes, with you fighting a losing battle with exhaustion. Your day had started at 9 pm last night when the first patient stumbled into your clinic and vomited on your floor. Now, at 4 am, your fatigue was catching up with you.  
Your head came to rest on the desk, with your forearm as a cushion between you and the cold metal. Your breathing evened out and the datapad slipped slowly from your fingers, falling with a small thud to the desk.


End file.
